


Wrapped Around Your Finger

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, As in forbidden by the one feeling it, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), F/M, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Forbidden Love, Guilt, Older Man/Younger Woman, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Drama, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28235070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Aziraphale is a lonely bookshop owner who lets one of his few friends convince him he needs some help. Getting said help from Antonia J. Crowley, a woman in her mid-twenties who seems to float above everything, probably wasn't the best choice.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, I'mma post this on anon cause I'm a fucking coward. I personally don't think there's anything inherently wrong with this premise (and everything is tagged properly) but since I intend this to be very psychological and all about contradictory "wrong" feelings, I can't promise some parts won't be upsetting or questionable. This is not shameless fluff, this is not pure love with an age gap. This is "I shouldn't feel this, you're baby" love with an age gap... and sex. What I mean is that if something seems like something a good person wouldn't condone, I don't condone it. And please be careful. Although Aziraphale won't be abusive and his feelings for Crowley are sincere, if you experienced a traumatic relationship with someone older than you, this could be triggering. Take care of yourself. Everyone else, enjoy <3

The first thing he learns about Antonia J. Crowley is that she doesn’t like to be called by her first name, yet she still won’t tell him what the J stands for —the way she goes “just a J, really” almost makes it sound like she’s serious, so he figures he shouldn’t question it—. That’s what makes her Crowley, a name that Aziraphale doesn’t deem appropriate for a young lady, but that he will respect until it grows up on him.

And it does. Rather quickly, actually. As days go by, he comes to the conclusion that there is no better option to call her. She is, without a shadow of a doubt, a Crowley… whatever that means in the real world, beyond the emotionality of how accurate it feels.

Aside from her name —so inappropriate for a young lady at the start and so undeniably _her_ at the end—, there are many things that force the thought that it wasn’t such a good idea after all inside Aziraphale’s mind. He is, despite his openness and good manners, a very private, solitary person. He’s been alone for years, he knows exactly how he wants everything to be like, he’s protective of the many treasures he owns and pretends to sell.

But most of all, he never took an employee before. He didn’t believe he needed one, with his whole business being a façade for a personal collection of rare editions and a career of finding equally rare editions for secretive clients —just to make ends meet; if he could stop eating, he would… Well, maybe he wouldn’t take it that far—. But he allowed Anathema —a contact that shouldn’t have become a friend— to convince him an assistant was indeed indispensable.

The term ‘assistant’ was broad on purpose. It could mean anything —not like a ‘salesperson’, which would imply selling books; not like a ‘housekeeper’, which would imply exclusive domestic help— and the ambiguity of it turned out to be comforting. Deep inside, it promised a good company to have around, someone to have a drink with, someone who would talk to him as they dusted and wiped the place together.

Antonia J. Crowley is the last person he would have chosen. Just out of college —although a bit older than the age at which Aziraphale thought most people graduated—, she entered the bookshop like it was her home already, abandoning her handbag on the nearest table and giving him an ‘are you insane?’ look behind her sunglasses as he attempted to kiss the back of her hand when she clearly expected him to just shake it.

“Weird eye condition,” she warned him before he could even consider the fact she was wearing sunglasses indoors. “Can’t stand the damn light.”

He gulped, unsure of what to say. Perhaps he should correct her language. Perhaps he should nod and let her off the hook this time. Aziraphale likes young people —as long as they stay away from his bookshop—, but he still cringes at their vocabulary sometimes.

“Also makes me look like a cat or something,” she added, lowering her shades to show him.

His own eyes widened at the sight of hers, golden and strange, a perfect parallelism with what appeared to be her whole persona. She pulled her glasses back up her prominent, elegant nose, barely giving him a second or two to process… all of it. She then proceeded to walk around the room, browsing through the bookshelves full of things he could afford losing, yet still rather not.

“Like a snake,” he told her from where he was standing, too loud to be absent-minded. It was embarrassingly clear that he had thought the comment out.

Crowley —who at that moment was still Antonia— turned back to him, head tilted in curious impatience.

“Huh?”

Aziraphale couldn’t stop looking at her nose; it was probably disrespectful at this point. It wrinkled with the inflection of her voice, as if it was alive and moved by the same confusion that his unsolicited opinion brought her.

He forced himself to smile, which he rarely needed to do —aside from his meals with difficult clients, of course—.

“Your eyes. They make you look like a snake… rather than a cat.” For God’s sake, he really was going out of his mind. He cleared his throat. “Cats are actually…”

“Why, thank you,” she huffed a half-sarcastic half-sincere chuckle, examining the books on the shelf again. “It’s the best I’ve been called in a long time.”

That was when it started. That sharp pain on his chest, that instinct of protection. Like he already knew, that early into their first meeting, that when she asked if she got the job he couldn’t say no.

He managed a tight laugh, imitating hers, minus the cynicism.

“No, I mean it,” she insisted, and focused back on him, as if to measure his emotional response to her tragic backstory. “Besides, I like snakes.”

Aziraphale looked her up and down. The snakeskin high heels, a silver bracelet in the shape of a rattlesnake around her wrist, the small tattoo close to her ear. She obviously liked snakes. He even wondered if the cat remark was an act to make him see how much she liked snakes and how much she looked like one. Then he bit his tongue to stop himself from apologizing for staring at her.

“Lovely place you’ve got here,” she nodded in approval, casual unidentified accent thickening, maybe whispering ‘see? I’m an adult, too.’

“Oh, yes,” he grinned, falling in her trap. “Also in a very good spot, don’t you think? It’s a bit—”

“Yeah, right by the sex shop.”

Aziraphale choked on nothing, but she didn’t seem to care. She was opening an old Bible —not that special, absolutely sellable without guilt or regret— by the middle and running her fingers through whatever passage she had landed on. How lucky he was to get the time to recover, free from the judgment of this young woman.

“As I was telling you, my dear, it’s a bit chaotic, I realize, but—”

“Well, isn’t that why I’m here?” she shrugged. “To help you tidy up?”

The man blinked, taken aback by her indifference. Everything about her was effortless and polished, the total opposite of who he was —always trying too hard, always with messy results; he did need an assistant, after all—.

“Um, yes, I think you’re right,” he said once he got it back together. “But there’s also a lot more to do here.”

“Oh?” she questioned, shutting the Bible. A challenge.

“Y-yes. For… for example, I’ll need help reorganizing the bookshelves.”

“I thought that was a part of the tidying up job.” She strutted to the window, long legs giving even longer steps, and Aziraphale rushed to follow her.

“It is, but also… I might need help with the house, too.”

“Cooking?” she asked, running a finger over the dusty glass, nose wrinkling once more.

“N-not exactly. I’m a good cook, if I can say so myself, but—”

“Then it’s also tidying up.”

“I might need you to look after the houseplants when I’m gone!” He was screaming at this point. What exactly were his intentions? Scaring her away? He could say no if he wanted to. “I-I sometimes have to travel to… to see clients who live far away from here. And I’m gone for weeks and no one looks after my poor plants.”

“Yeah, that’s obvious,” she said, holding the yellow leaves of the flower dying on the window sill. “Good thing I’m great with plants.”

“You… you are?” Aziraphale frowned.

“Yup. They’ll be just fine with me. Better than with you, at least.”

Crowley —still Antonia— dismissed everything she had been analysing with such careless interest and walked back to the counter, sitting on it like she had his blessing to do such an unprofessional thing. Aziraphale hated himself for not calling her out on that.

“So I’ve got the job?”

“You still want the job?”

She shrugged. She shrugged quite often. Aziraphale sighed.

“Why does a girl like you need to take a job like this? Helping an old bookseller with his empty business.”

Crowley grunted and rolled her eyes, avoiding his troubled gaze. It now felt like he was begging her to take the job while still wishing she would reconsider.

“You even have a college degree. And you graduated with very impressing grades, might I say. I can’t imagine you—”

“My mother hates me. I can’t stand going back to live with her, and that’s what awaits me if I don’t get a job soon. So, yeah, sucks to be me.”

Aziraphale was speechless. All the shame of noticing her shoes, accessories and tattoo; of yelling warnings about how awful working for him would be; of following her around trying to induce a change of mind he didn’t really want her to have… All of it was back, stronger than ever, twisting his guts in its upsetting grip.

Antonia J. Crowley wasn’t no longer a tall girl who left her bag wherever she could and sat wherever she shouldn’t. Looking at her, Aziraphale didn’t see her infinite legs and furious red hair anymore; he saw a lost child. She wasn’t a snake, she was a cat. A scared cat, a little kitten rejected by its mother, alone in a world full of hounds ready to tear it apart. And there was no shrug, no snarky comment, no wrinkle of the nose that could change that.

He didn’t have to push much to get her to tell him everything about it. Well, more or less. She didn’t get into details, but she was eager to share. The interesting thing was that, as she talked about her restrictive mother, her absent father and the bad influences that framed her teenage years and convinced said mother to despise her, it didn’t sound like she was sad or mad at them. Contrary to that, it sounded dignifying, in a way that was similar to the sacrifice and torture of the martyrs. Not pitiful; just proud.

By the end of the conversation, Aziraphale accepted her as his new ‘assistant’ —a term that, out of the blue, felt too broad—.

“You may move here as soon as you find convenient,” he said at the door. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Antonia.”

“It’s Crowley.”

So what she likes to be called wasn’t the first thing he knew about her. Before that, he found out she loves snakes, is good with plants and her only family treats her like a pest. Perhaps that’s why he prefers his version, where her chosen name came before all of that. Because, unlike those details, it gave him a reason to disapprove of her.

Her rejection of Antonia —a beautiful, classic and feminine name— in favour of Crowley —shapeless, impersonal, ambiguous— validated his initial rejection of her. Antonia was the kitten; Crowley was the snake.

Living with a snake might have proved to be harder than he hoped, but he’d take that over a kitten anytime.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tries to get used to have a lady (and a lady like Crowley) at home. Some of his thoughts might sound mysoginistic, but he's just scared because his peepee is having feelings. Mysoginy is not a good coping mechanism for when you don't want your peepee to have feelings, tho.

Crowley moves in in the early hours of a Saturday. She sneaks through the bookshop with her heels in one hand and her glasses on top of her head, hoping her fishnet-covered feet won’t make too much noise. Unfortunately for her, Aziraphale is also a night owl, so —after letting her get to the door, after letting her think she’s winning— he keeps his eyes on the book he’s restoring and calls from the rectangle of light she hasn’t noticed yet:

“Good morning, dear.”

Crowley jumps, both with surprise and that instinctive feeling of being caught doing something she… hasn’t been given a rule against, to be honest. She still doesn’t know Aziraphale would never do that.

“You… you said I could move in whenever I wanted,” she replies to an accusation that wasn’t made.

The bookseller smiles and turns to look at her, to show her he’s not upset.

“Yes, I did say that. But I hope this interesting time choice for a moving isn’t prompted by…”

He stops himself when he takes a proper glance. The messy hair, the dark make-up —darker than usual—, the faux fur coat and the dress so short he almost confuses it with a shirt at first. This isn’t an emergency moving; she’s back from a party and decided to come here rather than facing her surely enraged mother. The fatherly pain returns to his chest and he worries she might misinterpret his examination.

“Ngk, oh, no, no, not at all,” she denies, both with her voice and all her body from head to shoulders. “I was in the neighbourhood and figured I…”

The sentence trails off and Aziraphale wishes he could persuade her to continue. He wants to hear everything she has to say and he wants her to know that. He wants her to trust him.

“Well,” he beams, standing from his chair and playing with the hem of his gloves, “please do make yourself at home. The flat is upstairs. I can show you your room if you’d—”

“I’m sure I can find it,” she cuts him off and Aziraphale shuts his mouth in discreet shock. “You just keep doing…” She looks over his shoulder, at his cluttered desk. “Whatever that is.”

“Alright,” he nods, although he isn’t sure she heard him.

She grabs her luggage from where it was abandoned on the floor —just a travel bag with a make-up bag tied to it— and continues her walk, still sneaky despite the fact that it isn’t necessary anymore. Aziraphale imagines she’s trying not to bother him.

“Make yourself at home!” he repeats while she opens the door. “You have a free day to get comfortable and—”

“Thanks,” she interrupts, solemn, and disappears.

Aziraphale attempts to focus back on his job, but he finds it impossible. His hands won’t stop shaking. Perhaps he should go to bed, too.

* * *

They don’t see each other the rest of that day. Aziraphale is busy doing inventory on the backroom and she doesn’t come out for breakfast. In the afternoon, he has to go to a few meetings, pathetic quests to satisfy the ego of soulless collectors enough for them to sell their only personality traits to him.

He doesn’t come back until night and a part of him secretly hopes to find the shop destroyed or empty. But no, everything —even his mess— is in place.

He then goes upstairs, that same part of him expecting a party full of reckless college students disrespecting his home in ways his mind can’t conjure. But also no, aside from the murmur of a Queen song coming from her room, there’s not a sign of another human life there. And the music stops as soon as he puts a foot into the flat, so…

Despite her obscure surface, Antonia J. Crowley is a trustworthy girl. It makes him feel both disappointed —on himself— and angry —somehow at her—. The perfect assistant appears and he wants her to fail so badly; she hasn’t done anything work-related and he’s already calling her the perfect assistant in his head.

* * *

Next morning, while crossing the small hallway of the flat, he stops by her door and knocks on it. There’s no reply, just a distant snore. He knocks again.

“Ngh?”

“I’m going to make some breakfast. Would you like to join me?”

Silence.

“Crowley?”

“Ngk, yes, yes, of course. Lemme just…”

He hears her stumble out of the bed and smiles all the way to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, the crepes are served and Crowley walks out the hallway, left hand receiving a poorly censored yawn. Aziraphale doesn’t understand why she took so long, since it’s evident she’s still in her sleeping clothes.

“Morning,” she groans, sitting on the second chair he bought for her.

Aziraphale’s mouth hangs open. No, there’s no doubt, she didn’t get dressed at all. The closest thing to an effort in her look is the hair, pulled up in a lazy ponytail that reveals two or three white strands —not that he’s judging, his own hair started greying in his twenties, too—.

Nothing about the dark socks protecting her feet and the oversized band t-shirt covering her down to her mid-thighs —so she’s really a Queen fan after all…— suggests the minutes she spent in her bedroom were necessary.

And she’s not even wearing a bra! Not even another shirt on top of the one she’s wearing. Not even a little arch of the back to make her breasts disappear under the shapeless piece of fabric. Not even a… a bra.

Aziraphale knows how uncomfortable those garments can be and he doesn’t expect her to sleep in one, but one would think she’d put one on to have breakfast with a middle-aged man she just met.

Well, if the man stares —man as in general, not him specifically— it is a man problem, isn’t it? Jesus encouraged men who felt tempted by the women around them to pluck their own eyes out. But to be fair, it’s a very different situation. Aziraphale is looking respectfully, shocked by her lack of modesty. Aziraphale is looking at her…

Oh, no.

“Good morning,” he suddenly remembers to respond, taking his gaze away from her peaking… No, he won’t say that word! They’re meant for babies, for God’s sake! “How did you sleep?”

“Alright,” she nods. “Why is it so dark here?”

“Oh, I didn’t open the curtains today.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“You mentioned your eyes are sensitive to light,” he finally admits.

That’s when it happens. The ghost of a warm grin twitches the corner of her lips and she stops it before it grows, although it’s too late. Aziraphale already noticed it was there, at least for a second. She takes her glasses off and replaces the warm grin with a casual one, the facial equivalent of her typical shrugs.

“Thanks.”

The way she says thanks, as if his kindness is a pleasant surprise, not something everyone should grant her, not something the world owes her. Aziraphale is convinced he’ll never get used to that word in her lips, when she means it, or the sight of her naked eyes.

“So what are we doing today?” she inquires, ignoring her plate of crepes in favour of an apple in the basket-centrepiece.

Aziraphale chokes as she peels the fruit, before he identifies what she’s actually asking.

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t expect this to be a busy day. I already took care of the inventory yesterday and I met some clients. Perhaps we should just… tidy up.”

“Sounds good,” she decides, biting a piece of apple and standing from her chair. “I should shower first. Thank you for the breakfast.”

She leaves the room, hips swaying and a hint of underwear —loose shorts, thank you Lord— peaks under her t-shirt. Aziraphale hasn’t finished his own meal when she comes back to get rid of the apple’s skeleton, limited space forcing her bum to briefly brush against his back as she throws it in the bin.

He’s about to wash the dishes when he hears water running and decides to wait. This is why he didn’t want to share his flat with anyone. Now the dishes will be there, accumulating dirt and flies, so this girl can have her hot shower.

His stomach turns. First the absence of a bra and now this.

Naked in his own shower? How dare she? No wonder she doesn’t like to be called Antonia. That’s a lady name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wants to be a cool dad but also not a dad but yes but no. He can't explain it, either. Very light warning for menstrual-related stuff reffered to as "lady problems/products/etc". Not all women menstruate and menstruating doesn't make you a woman <3

All Aziraphale can think about when Crowley shows up downstairs, is that it’s the first time he sees her wearing trousers. Sure, they are unhealthily tight and make him wonder if her gynaecologist has warned her about them, but it’s still a nice surprise. The least he wants is for her to be uncomfortable or refuse to use the ladder to dust off the higher books. He’s also glad he just called her a “very smart girl” in his head, since his thoughts about her over their first official day together hadn’t been exactly positive.

“So where do you want me?” she questions, closing the door to the stairs behind her.

Aziraphale blinks.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” she corrects herself, and he can see her eyes roll behind her glasses, “where should we start? What should I do?”

He looks around as he notices he let too much saliva accumulate inside his mouth and now he has to swallow it all together, producing far too much noise. He didn’t really stop to think what task he could assign her. The bookshop is always so cluttered and it’s been like that since he made it his home, so he never analysed how a potential assistant could help him “fix” it.

His gaze soon catches a broom, supported against one of the walls near the counter.

“Um, you could start with…” He rushes to give it to her. “This.”

Crowley looks at him and the broom for a second, as if she expected more specific directions —as if he was obsessed with control and having everything done his way… which is partially true—. Then she nods and takes it.

“Ok.”

That’s all the arrangement they need. He’ll come up with more things for her to do as he finds them required. He could look for some ideas on the computer. Or better yet, he could ask her to look for ideas on the computer, since he can’t get it to work properly and there are too many single MILFs in his area —whatever that means—.

But that problem belongs in the future. Right now, Crowley is happy to sweep the room and hum some quiet melodies to herself, and Aziraphale is more than happy with that.

Knowing someone’s got his back is refreshing. Not that he doesn’t feel like that with Anathema or even Madame Tracy, the sweet lady who runs the shop next door —and who won’t stop encouraging him to visit it—. It’s just a different kind of safety to have someone around if he leaves the food in the oven for too long and the place catches fire. Or if a burglar breaks in.

And it’s also very comforting to have someone humming as they sweep the room.

Aziraphale is cleaning a particularly dirty window when he decides he really likes Crowley’s voice. It’s not feminine by any mean —not Disney princess feminine—, but there’s something irresistibly girly about it, like she can’t stop herself nor does she want to. The joy of being young, Aziraphale imagines.

A few minutes later —he’s still cleaning the same window, scared of turning around and preventing her from keep singing—, he realizes she’s not just humming a melody; there are words, too. He listens hard and makes out a verse:

_“Ooh, let me feel your heartbeat, go faster, faster…”_

He recognizes the song. Well, he has heard it before, not paying attention to it, probably in a public place. The tune is familiar enough, although he can’t recall the lyrics. For now, her efforts to sing the main and backing vocals at the same time are endearing and worth a smile or two.

_“Can you feel my love heat? Come on and sit on my hot seat of love and tell me how do you feel right after all…”_

Alright, that seems… suggestive. Not something he would have been caught singing in his twenties, at his first job, around his boss. Times surely have changed.

_“I’d like for you and I to go romancing, say the word, your wish is my command.”_

Aziraphale’s eyes shot open. That’s a Queen song, he figures out, and Freddie Mercury didn’t look nor sound like the type who would sing about sharing a milkshake and holding hands afterwards, or wishing for flowers and chocolate. And even if he was, Crowley definitely isn’t.

The door’s bell make them both jump and Aziraphale sighs when he sees Anathema entering the bookshop. He almost knocks Crowley over as he runs to greet her.

“My dear, you came!” he says cheerfully.

Anathema’s eyes shine with jovial confusion, her face remembering to smile to which appears to be a special day.

“Were you expecting me?”

“No, but that’s what makes it such a wonderful surprise,” he beams, helping her out of her coat. “What brings you here, dear?”

“Well, it’s about that Wilde original you wan—”

“Oh, wait, I have someone to introduce you to.” He hangs the coat and intertwines their arms, taking her to where Crowley is brushing the dust despite her protests. “Um, Miss Crowley, I’d like you to meet someone. This is Anathema Device.”

They shake hands and Aziraphale’s smile is mere inches away from touching his ears, excited as he is for them. Anathema isn’t too much of a social person —that’s why they get along so well— and Crowley could use a friend like her, something different from the supposedly bad influences she had growing up.

“I’ll go make some tea and leave you to know each other,” he announces.

Around five minutes after that —and after he ran upstairs and slammed the door shut so fast he forgot he had done it—, he’s in the kitchen filling three cups with tea. He turns back to see if he has something they can eat with them and Anathema’s shape on the doorframe —leaning against it, arms crossed— threatens to make him drop the jar of biscuits.

“My dear girl, I must say, you scared me half to death. What are you doing here? You should be with Crowley. I don’t want her to be on her own for—”

“She’s a woman, not a Golden Retriever. She should be fine.” She steps further into the kitchen. “Now what was all that about?”

Aziraphale releases a quiet laugh and puts some biscuits on the platter.

“I sure don’t understand what you mean.”

“Come on, Aziraphale, we’ve known each other for so long. What was… all that? Why forcing me to talk to your new employee?”

He stops and stares at her with a conflicted look.

“If I overstepped…” He exhales. “I just think you two could become good friends. Believe it or not, you’ve got a lot in common.”

“Like what?”

“Aren’t you a big Queen fanatic?”

“Not really,” she declares, possibly trying to recall something that might have given him that impression.

“But you do like Queen.”

“I guess. Who doesn’t?”

“Well, Crowley likes Queen, too! See? You two—”

“Aziraphale, why do you want me to be her friend?”

He can feel his cheeks burning now. Until that last question, his plan —improvised as it is— made perfect sense, but suddenly he realizes Anathema and Crowley aren’t really that similar —not that he knows the latter enough to make any assumption— and the embarrassment comes in waves.

“Is it so terrible to want you to have more friends?”

“I do have friends,” she frowns. “You just don’t know them because you’d rather isolate yourself in here, despite my efforts to—”

“Honestly, dear, do we need to make this about me?”

“It’s certainly not about me, either.”

Aziraphale closes his mouth, opens it, then closes it again. He rubs his temples in harmless frustration towards himself rather than her.

“Crowley is the one who could benefit from having a new friend,” he confesses. “Such a lonely girl, it’s… depressing.”

“She’s been here for two days.”

“Her father abandoned her.”

“Sounds like I’ve got her father right in front of me.”

His frustration turns into offense at what seems like an attack for some reason, although Anathema rarely has the intention of attacking. His mouth opens once more, face flushing to an unhealthy extent, fists clenched.

“Don’t say that!” he whispers like he’s yelling. “Do you want her to hear you and get scared?”

“Scared of you?” Her eyebrows arc, incredulous. Aziraphale’s state doesn’t allow him to respond, so she continues: “And how do you know she doesn’t have any friends? Did she tell you or is it another assumption?”

“Another assumption!” he exclaims sarcastically.

“What has gotten into you?” She sits by the table, watching him run around a bit before he remembers what he was doing, right there. “Aziraphale, if you’re not comfortable with her—”

“Who says I’m not comfortable with her?”

“You tried to set us up as friends and ran away immediately. Look, even if she’s lonely, even if her dad left, you’re under no obligation to have her around if you didn’t click. I told you to hire someone to make your life easier, not harder.”

“It’s so simple to you, isn’t it?” he accuses, collapsing on the free chair. “Well, I’m different. I just can’t, in good conscience, to leave a poor child out in the—”

“She is not a child,” Anathema insists, her desperation growing. “She’s an adult woman. She can’t be more than five years younger than me. Do you think I’m a child?”

“Of course not. You’re a business partner, so to speak.”

“And Crowley is an employee.”

“And she’s very good at what she does.”

“So what’s the matter?”

Aziraphale leaves his chair, hand on his forehead in absolute disgrace. What is the matter? Crowley might not be the perfect assistant —okay, she kind of is—, but she’s a decent enough girl. She’s quiet, she seems smart and she’s efficient. She hasn’t been anything but respectful within the limits of her… personality. Is it her personality that he doesn’t like? It would make sense, since they’re so…

“You don’t have all the facts,” he informs against his own will, turning his back to her.

“So tell me,” Anathema encourages.

He faces her violently, breathe heaving a little. His voice drops to a frantic gossip-kind of whisper:

“She doesn’t wear a bra to sleep!”

Anathema is unaffected by the wild allegation, fingers intertwined over the table, lips forming a straight line.

“Is that all?”

“Is that all?” Aziraphale repeats, perplexed. “Don’t you think—”

“We all do that, Aziraphale. It’s normal.”

His jaw drops and he almost has to push it back up manually.

“Well, she should wear one for breakfast, that’s my opinion. And I don’t think it’s a very controversial one.”

“Alright.” She stands up. “Then ask her to get dressed before breakfast.”

“What? I won’t do such thing!”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s… she’s going to think… She will…”

“Then don’t say anything and learn to tolerate it. The maths are far less complicated than you make them sound.” She walks to the door. “You know, I think hiring a female assistant wasn’t the best idea if you can’t take the simplest feminine stuff. What are you going to do when she’s on her period? Throw away her tampons?”

“Keep your voice down!”

Anathema shrugs.

“Anyway, I really don’t want tea. Just came here to tell you the Wilde you were looking for is practically in the bag. I tried to call you but your phone is always turned off.”

“I forget to charge it.”

Despite the awkward conversation, she smiles.

“Have a nice day, Aziraphale.”

“You too, dear.”

* * *

“Your friend doesn’t like me, does she?” Crowley asks that night, as they have dinner.

Aziraphale freezes.

“Oh, dear, that is not the case at all. Why would you think that?”

“Dunno. Just… she didn’t look like she liked me. She went after you as soon as she could. Still tried to be polite, which, y’know, I can respect, but—”

“You must have confused her American manners with something else,” he reassures her, staring into her eyes like convincing her Anathema does like her is the best deed he could ever do. “Trust me on this, dear, she _adores_ you. I told her you’re an avid Queen listener and she said that was… um, pretty cool?”

Crowley doesn’t appear to be very sold on it, but she chooses to take his word anyway. Their meal goes on and after a minute or two she says:

“Sorry if my music is too loud.”

“What?”

“I mean, you… know I like Queen and everything? I must play it too loud.”

“Oh, no, not at all. I just… figured. You wear a Queen shirt to sleep and…” He blushes and rushes to clarify: “N-not that I’m policing your clothing or—”

“Nah, it’s ok. Just tell me if something bothers you or—”

“None of that, my dear. There is nothing you can do to bother me… Or that anyone could do! I’m not bothered easy, you see, so…” He sighs. “I suppose I just want you to know that, whatever you need or if you struggle to make new friends or… anything you find yourself struggling with, you can tell me. Think of me as…”

“My dad?” she completes with a… disgusted expression, perhaps?

“Your friend.”

Crowley nods, apparently happier with the word he selected than with her first guess.

Aziraphale takes another bite of his food, satisfied of how well he’s managing this new dynamic, so far removed from everything he’s used to. He has come to understand that it makes no sense to be disturbed by everything she does. She’s a girl, for God’s sake! She is allowed to do things that might come off as strange or even disrespectful, according to his strict moral code that she shouldn’t have to accommodate to in order to do her job right.

“Also, if you ever face… um, lady-like difficulties,” he goes on. “If you need some extra money for… lady-like products or if your… Let’s say, if you’re surprised by an unexpected change in your cycle… Don’t be ashamed to ask for help. I could go… buy you whatever you need. I’m not the sort of man who gets upset over these things, I—”

“It’s alright, that won’t happen” she interrupts distractedly. “I’m on the pill.”

The pill?!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All tampons and no social skills make Aziraphale an unwilling father figure.
> 
> Warning for Aziraphale not being gay, which you could figure out by... the whole thing, but it's still weird when he is explicitly confused with a gay man. Also discussions of undiagnosted anxiety and making the decision of not dating cis men because they're terrifying, an ongoing saga. Idk, could be triggering for some <3

There is a box of tampons on the bathroom’s countertop. Right between the sink where he washes his hands and the glass where he keeps his toothbrush. He could have confused it with something else at first glance, innocent as it looks, white and lilac with small butterflies flying over a feminine typography. But when he notices the picture closer to the bottom, as subtle as a kick on the groin, there’s no doubt of what it is: a box of tampons that has already been opened.

So Crowley is menstruating. Almost two weeks since she arrived, the day when they do inventory, she’s on her period. Aziraphale’s stomach turns and his heart sinks. The poor girl must be going through hell and sucking it in to avoid him any trouble. She spent the whole morning cleaning and organizing and using the stairs while her body is the most vulnerable. He can do nothing but imagine the discomfort, the pain, and feel terrible for his negligence. If Crowley hated him, she’d have every right to do so.

“Are you in there?” A knock comes on the door.

Aziraphale jumps, moved by the urge to throw the damn box out the window or hide it behind his back. It makes no sense and he controls it, but it’s still there. Great, now he’s making her wait to use the bathroom, in her state…

“Um… I’ll be out in a second, dear!” he calls back.

He’s out in a literal second and Crowley’s eyes widen when he opens the door, his breathing heavy and his expression terrified.

“I can come back later if you…”

“N-no, I’m done, I promise! Just…” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, dear, shouldn’t have keep you waiting for so long. If I had known…”

“Known what?”

_Oh, no…_

He’s trying to come up with an excuse when she rolls her eyes and accidentally ends up looking over his shoulder, localizing the motive behind his strange behaviour.

“Right. Sorry about that.”

“A-about what?”

She walks by his side and grabs the box right in front of his shocked face. Aziraphale’s mouth moves but sound refuses to come out. The last time he was this embarrassed, he had to pray for ten minutes straight to prevent a panic attack. This is worse. He wants to apologize or prove that she’s wrong —he’s not sure which one it is—, he wants the Earth beneath his feet to crack and swallow him, he wants to…

“I never took you for… that kind of man,” she comments, no intention in her matter-of-fact tone. “I mean, you acted all open-minded, I thought… y’know, that you wouldn’t mind. Sorry.”

He stands there and watches her leave, more rushed than he would have liked, so convinced that he couldn’t take one more instant with the box of discord there. So convinced that he’s perturbed by her mere nature.

And Anathema expected him to call her out on the bra situation.

* * *

It’s been two hours and she finally got to go to the bathroom without his tasteless interruptions. It happened forty five minutes ago and she hasn’t left her bedroom since then.

Aziraphale is boiling some water for tea and he wonders if he should tell her it’s almost ready, ask her if she’d like a cup. Anathema has mentioned the positive impact of some herbs on this type of matters —not in the context of Crowley, but about three months before she arrived, as a casual comment about tea ‘making her feel better’—. Perhaps offering some would be a nice way to end any possible dispute between them.

He repeats, time and time again, that she isn’t as upset as he thinks. Crowley isn’t the sort of girl who gets easily bothered, he’s sure. Otherwise, they would have already gotten into an argument.

That doesn’t calm his conscience, though. In fact, it worsens everything, because he can imagine her muttering harsh adjectives about him and shutting up when he’s around. Because, even if she is too kind to do such thing, it could hurt all the same.

A young lady just out of college, rejected by both parents. Aziraphale can’t let himself be another disappointment in her life. She may seem tough, but she came here looking for a place to be and he won’t let it feel like anything but a proper home. He must make an effort.

Against his best judgment, he fills up a second cup and takes the porcelain dish to the door he hasn’t dared to knock since their first morning together.

“Are you decent?” he asks with a gentle smile she can’t see, a light, playful tone he isn’t sure she’ll understand.

“Me?” she replies in a disturbingly accurate Rita Hayworth impression. She chuckles when his silence speaks louder than any horrified scream. “Come in.”

He does as he’s told and is immediately received by… the last thing he expected her bedroom to look like.

Crowley’s lied down in the semi-darkness, legs spread open under the tartan cover he was certain she would change for something different, her eyes barely leaving her magazine to give Aziraphale a ‘what now?’ look that isn’t as harsh as it sounds.

That’s when Aziraphale remembers what he came to do.

“So sorry to interrupt you, I just thought you might use some tea. I heard it’s…”

No, it’s absurd to explain his reasoning to her. Kids on the Internet have a word for that and, even though he can’t recall it, he’s perfectly capable of imagining it in Crowley’s voice. Whatever the correct terminology is, she’s going to find him patronizing and irritating, and he’s already on thin ice —or he’d be, if he had to impress her—.

He chooses to insist on the smile instead and wait for her answer.

“Thanks,” she nods, putting the magazine aside and accepting the cup as he leaves the plate on her bedside table.

Now that that’s out of the way, now that he has completely invaded her territory, he gets to appreciate the true focus of attention: how clean and well-organized everything is. More than he left it, even —not that that it’s saying much—.

Aziraphale hates generalizations and falls for them more often that he’d gladly admit, but this is not what he thought the bedroom of a woman in her twenties would look like. And if that woman went through an adolescence full of bad influences, the chances narrow to incredibly limited numbers.

Crowley once again shuts his mouth without knowing it was talking. Every single detail, from the posters on the wall to the replicas of movie props and works of art on the chest, is spotless and in its very specific place. And what’s that in the air? Vanilla? Lavender? Aziraphale’s only ever met the smell of old books.

“Oh, I love what you’ve done with the place,” he praises, more to himself than to her.

Crowley’s forehead wrinkles in genuine puzzlement. The bags under her eyes make her look angrier and older than she is.

“What?”

Aziraphale chokes on nothing and his gaze bounces on everything but hers. Nothing feels as breath-taking as it did before. It is, after all, the room of an adult who has gone through college and has a job. It’s what it should be, even if it goes beyond his abilities to keep a space inhabitable.

Too late. He’s got to stick with what’s already said despite the heat rushing to his cheeks.

“Your room, I mean. It’s lovely. I wish I had this level of… Well, organization.”

“If you’d let me give the bookshop a real shake-down,” she states, taking a sip from her tea. Aziraphale waits for her to regret it and excuse her lack of manners, but it never happens. “It’s no big deal. Helps with the anxiety, organizing stuff.”

“You have anxiety?” Aziraphale’s go up without his permission again. A habit they have caught lately, against his best wishes.

Crowley’s mouth twitches in the usual shrug-like gesture.

“Kind of. I know I do, at least. Not that I’ve got a piece of paper with a doctor’s sign on it I can show you…”

Aziraphale jumps in alert.

“N-no, no, that is by no means necessary! I believe you.” Her softening expression relaxes him. “I… I suppose I might be a little anxious myself.”

“You totally are,” she declares instantly, drinking a bit more of tea. She’s quick to decipher that wasn’t the most proper thing to say, though. “I mean, I’m not a doctor, but—”

“So tell me, dear,” he cuts her off, noticing her legs are closed now, as if to… make some room for him to sit on the bed? “Does the bookshop being… disorganized trigger your anxiety? Or…?”

“Oh, no, it’s alright. I’m not anxious over mess; fixing the mess calms the anxiety. Everything is fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They nod a couple times before it comes to Aziraphale’s mind that he should get going. He did what he had to do, he gave her the tea, so there’s no reason for him to keep wasting both of their times. However, his body refuses to move and her legs push farther to the right under his tartan cover. Aziraphale takes a deep breath and sits down, careful not to touch her.

“Dear girl, I’m…” he sighs, “incredibly sorry about what happened earlier.”

“Huh?”

“With the… the…”

“Ah, the tampons,” she completes, quiet. There is a great chance she is rejoicing in his uncomfortableness.

Aziraphale blinks slowly and gulps. When his eyes open again, they’re no longer running away from Crowley’s, but searching for them like she won’t trust his good intentions any other way.

“I truly don’t mind,” he insists/begs. “I know I didn’t react well and I was not much of a gentleman when we met in the bathroom, I know I… I disappointed you, but I need you to understand… I’m not what I made myself to look like and I meant it when I told you that you could trust me with these things and—”

“Whoa, slow down…”

“I _am_ open-minded. I recognize I can appear old-fashioned or stuck in my ways, but there is nothing about the human body that disturbs me. Not to the point of being rude. I don’t know what made me act in such a discourteous—”

“Mr Fell…”

“My guess is that I’m just not used to have a woman around for extended periods of time. I’m… I’m actually more familiar with loneliness.”

He could have gone on with his pathetic rant, but her hand on his arm is benevolent enough to give him another thing to worry about. It also stops him.

“Mr Fell, it’s fine, really. I’m… I’m not that used to be around men, either. That’s why I don’t date them anymore.”

 _Oh…_ Crowley doesn’t date men. That’s great, Aziraphale’s inner voice —his actual inner voice, for a change— concludes. She’s less likely to have her heart broken —God knows how young men can be sometimes— or go through an unwanted pregnancy. He’s happy for her. He grins to make it clear and she must not be buying it, because she continues:

“Nothing wrong with men, I like them well enough. Living proof that sexual orientation isn’t a choice. Just can’t be bothered with them at this stage in my life.”

Aziraphale’s head nods. If he intends it to nod or not is irrelevant; it simply does, while his brain floats miles above it. It comes down for a moment and that’s enough for him to discover he should reply, that if he remains silent, Crowley might think he’s offended.

“Oh, that is more than comprehensible. I find myself feeling the same way… Well, about—”

“Yeah, but it’s sort of different, isn’t it?” She looks up to the ceiling like she needs to think it over, to unravel her complicated thoughts on such a complex matter. “Men your age and men my age are different. Men your age are mature and they know what they want and—”

“We really don’t,” he mutters, head shaking, eyes open.

“And gay men and straight men… I mean, that’s just… different, isn’t it? Like it almost doesn’t make sense to compare.”

If a distant noise was heard from a military base in the middle of the jungle in what Americans would describe as an exotic country, it would be safe for the ones in it to assume it was Aziraphale’s jaw crushing against the floor.

“G-gay men? As in… very cheerful men?”

Crowley giggles. Aziraphale is tempted to laugh, too, but it’s soon revealed that she thinks he’s joking. It’s painfully obvious when she recovers her superficial seriousness.

“Hey, I’m full, but thank you for the tea,” she announces, leaving the cup on the plate and handing it to him. “Don’t stress over the period stuff, really. You shouldn’t even have to find out. It’s a me problem.”

He looks down at the cup, the pale trace of red lipstick that she forgot to wash off when she got in her sleeping clothes, the leaves swimming in what’s left of the brown beverage. Crowley lies back against the pillows and shows a tired smile, her golden eyes drowsed by the processes of her body.

“Your problems can be mine, too,” he reassures her. “And nothing that is… _you_ deserves to be classified as a problem.”

Crowley’s hand falls on the swollen curve of her belly and Aziraphale is shaken by an obsessive desire to put his own had on top of hers. The thought scares him and he’s lucky to be capable of ignoring it and reinforce his smile.

“Thank you for looking after me,” she whispers, eyes glossy, be it because of her period or because she’s getting emotional —which could be caused by her period, too, Aziraphale figures—.

“Rest, my dear. And do tell me if you need anything.”

He finally stands up and walks out the door, a strange emptiness filling his stomach.

In no longer than ten minutes, he has started to wish tampons were still his biggest concern. This is great, he tells himself. Crowley feels safe around him, she considers him someone she can trust and share her baggage with.

Who cares if she misread his sexual orientation? Isn’t it a blessing, not to be like the other men? Those terrible men who made her decide to stop dating them, who were immature and didn’t know what they wanted. Such a fortunate situation, that Aziraphale is not one of them.

Even if that means he doesn’t see the small hint of pink peaking under the edge of her tank top, peppered by the tiniest fugitive freckles. Even if he isn’t allowed to dedicate a thought or two to them over the course of the evening.

Because Crowley’s trust —Crowley’s _smile_ — is worth his weight in freckles, and he wouldn’t trade that for anything in the whole world.


End file.
